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<title>i am the world spinning round inside of you by crispy_ceasar</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28356942">i am the world spinning round inside of you</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/crispy_ceasar/pseuds/crispy_ceasar'>crispy_ceasar</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, THIS MADE ME REALIZE HOW BAD MY TENSES ARE PLS IGNORE IT, Technoblade Has ADHD (Video Blogging RPF), adhd problems bc we do be STRUGGLING, again i'm projecting onto techno what's new, as you can tell i like obnoxiously long titles, can u tell techno is my comfort cc, gifted kid burnout tings~, theres not comfort per say but</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 21:41:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,584</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28356942</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/crispy_ceasar/pseuds/crispy_ceasar</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>his leg bounced up and down, fingers tapping on the desk. he could stop, but it would feel weird and wrong and then he’d only be able to focus on the weirdness and wrongness of not moving. he could barely force himself to stop anyway. </p><p>or </p><p>adhd isn’t “haha im so quirky and hyper an- oh look a butterfly!”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>251</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>i am the world spinning round inside of you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>i don’t know what to do. </p><p>the thought bounced around in his brain, echoing off the walls and he focused on it again. wait, no. fuck. he was supposed to be paying attention. right. he huffed a breath again, shaking his head as if to dispel the fog. it didn’t work. </p><p>his leg bounced up and down, fingers tapping on the desk. he could stop, but it would feel weird and wrong and then he’d only be able to focus on the weirdness and wrongness of not moving. he could barely force himself to stop anyway. </p><p>oh right. algebra. </p><p>okay so the corresponding angles are the same on a parallelogram with a line cutting through it… and the… fuck. focus, focus. just, fuck. oh now he’s focusing on focusing instead of actually focusing. </p><p>the teacher drones on about angles and parallel lines and honestly techno couldn’t give less of a fuck, so really why is he listening. was there something important? </p><p>oh yeah there’s a test tomorrow. and he has no idea what they’re even doing. </p><p>he remembers when math used to come easy to him, when it made sense, when he enjoyed the calculations and numbers and graphs. when it was okay that he couldn’t focus because he was smart enough to get high grades without trying at all. </p><p>and now he’s failing math. </p><p>well, not exactly. he’s pulling a solid 57, but to him that was basically a fail. his former gifted kid brain hadn’t quite caught up with the fact that they just couldn’t do that anymore, couldn’t handle it. couldn’t focus. speaking of… </p><p>seriously. </p><p>he shakes his head again, straightens up in the cheap plastic chair and stares straight ahead at the teacher. okay, math.</p><p>she’s doing a problem… what the fuck is this. when did we do this? he blinks. the fuck. </p><p>okay, the outside angle adds up to the two angles in the triangle on the other side… should he write this down? might help. it’s not like he’s gonna study anyway, but he could pretend he’s going to. he always does. fuck. he’s focusing too hard on focusing and by trying to focus, he’s in fact not focusing. </p><p>focus. the triangle has 180 degrees… so the angles add up with the outside… and… what? </p><p>not for the first time, he shakes his head harshly and straightens up again. math time, math time. the teacher says something about the questions in the book…? oh god. now everyone’s starting to work. </p><p>he flips open the book, panic edging at him. his leg starts bouncing faster. what page was it…? </p><p>he leans over to the blonde sitting next to him, catching his attention with a whispered hiss.</p><p>“dream? what page is it?” </p><p>“116.” the blonde says brightly, turning back to his conversation with sapnap and decidedly not doing his work. </p><p>okay, 116. fine, fine. he flips to the page, scanning the questions and feels his heart sink when he realizes he has no clue how to do any of them. </p><p>i mean i haven’t been paying attention, he sighs again, thinking. i probably deserve this. </p><p>still he attempts it, halfheartedly scratching pencil marks that make no sense even to him. eventually he just flips to the back of the book and as inconspicuous as he can, starts copying the answers down. he’s not learning anything, but he’ll get a good mark on this. which at the point he’s at, is so much better than nothing. </p><p>and even if he’s not actually doing the work, it still takes the whole class to copy down a couple of questions. he literally doesn’t know how he managed that. well, maybe he had spaced out a little between writing, mind drifting to a million other random things and hands twirling his hair and fiddling with his pencil and twisting his rings. </p><p>there shouldn’t be any distractions. the class is mostly silent, blanket of quiet chatter just background noise. he left his phone in his bag, the walls are plain and gray, and he literally doesn’t have any friends to talk to. </p><p>there isn’t any distractions at all. so why is he so distracted. </p><p>frustration wells up in him, and his throat tightens unexpectedly. oh come on. tears prick at his eyes, but he’s not about to cry in math class because that would be humiliating and he’s not about to ruin the perfectly crafted image he has for himself. </p><p>suck it up. </p><p>he drags the back of his hand across his eyes, taking a shaky breath. he just needs to focus on the math. </p><p>his eyes burn holes through the pages in the book, but the numbers spin in circles around his head and he just can’t understand what it means. </p><p>right then. time to give up. fortunately being sat in the very back next to the annoying loud kids makes you go unnoticed most of the time, so he shoves his hood over his head and slumps in the chair. his abandoned pencil almost looks like it’s taunting him. he thinks at it to shut the fuck up. </p><p>math is just… hard. everything’s hard really. sometimes he wonders if he’s just fucking stupid, but he used to have such high grades without trying that it wouldn’t make sense.</p><p>it just feels like mental fog between what he needs to learn and his absorption of it. he tugs on a strand of his hair, lost in thought. </p><p>the teacher told phil that techno wasn’t staying focused, and phil had told him he needed to focus, not unkindly.  techno told him that he was trying. because he was. and no one could know how hard he’s fucking trying, it literally doesn’t make sense how hard he’s trying for the outcome it gives. the outcome is low marks, failed tests, and utter confusion. at this point he doesn’t know what’s going on. in general, and in class. </p><p>he’s trying. harder then they’ll ever know. the teacher probably thinks he’s just stupid, never having seen him in eighth grade score 97 on a test where everyone else had gotten under 50. when he could actually do his work. </p><p>he feels like throwing the pencil at the opposite wall. he doesn’t do that. he just taps it on his thigh, leaning forward to rest an elbow on the desk and stares off in the distance at nothing. frustration claws at him. he just wants to cry, or possibly rip his own skin off. he tugs harder on his hair, frustration spilling over. and... ow. </p><p>oh. he accidentally ripped a strand of hair out of his skull. he winced, hand coming up to press on his scalp. that’s when he realized how agitated he was, and how crazy he probably looked.</p><p>he needed to calm down. god. enough not to have a panic attack in math class anyway. </p><p>abruptly he got out of his seat, which surprised even himself. luckily the teacher was lax about bathroom breaks, only sparing him a glance over her glasses.</p><p>it was way too loud. it was way too loud, it was way too loud, it was way too loud.</p><p>he can’t remember getting into the bathroom, or leaning against the wall, or sliding down it onto the dirty floor. but it happened at some point and now he’s desperately trying not to hyperventilate while yanking on his hair hard enough to hurt. fun. </p><p>a distant part of his mind acknowledges that it’s kind of funny, in a fucked up way, how he can’t even sit through math class without getting frustrated. </p><p>woo, go him. </p><p>but now he’s here, in the secluded bathroom on the left wing and pressing his knees tight to his chest like he’s afraid he’ll fall apart if he doesn’t hold himself so tense. that’s what it feels like. his teeth vibrate in his jawbone, all the atoms making up his body feeling like they’re going to vibrate and rip apart his body. </p><p>trying to hold himself together is incredibly hard when he feels like he’s about to rip his own skin off. that’s what it is. the urge for violence and pain and pain and pain. there’s heat beneath his skin, and the urge to claw and bite and scratch and hurt until he doesn’t feel wrong. </p><p>nope. we’re gonna attempt to be healthy about this. </p><p>he takes a shuddering breath in, exhales harshly and shoves his head into his knees. the harsh fluorescent lights are hurting his eyes to look at. the wall digs into his spine, and he presses himself more flatly against it. it hurts. it helps get rid of the violent itch settled into his skin. his hands clench into fists uselessly at his sides, and he still feels like he wants to hurt and hurt and hurt. but he breathes in again, and again, and over and over until he stops shaking. until his hands uncurl from fists and he stops feeling like he’s about to explode. </p><p>he exhales again, and scrubs at his face with both hands. fuck. </p><p>finally standing up, he unlocks the stall and watches himself in the mirror. he looks a little wild, cheeks flushed and eyes red and irritated. his pink hair is all messy from being yanked. he looks like, well, he’s just been having a mental breakdown in the bathroom. </p><p>he really doesn’t want to go back to math class. </p><p>he resigns himself to stand here and stare at his reflection and breathe until he feels okay.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>ayo mamas leave a comment pls i've descended into insanity ahaha~</p><p>I DONT THINK THIS MAKES SENSE</p><p>...ITS EXACTLY 4:35 AM RN</p><p>help</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>title: i am - foot ox<br/>chapter titles playlist:<br/>1. lavender blood - fox academy</p></blockquote></div></div>
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